


Little Lives

by AuthorialIncursion



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Akumatized OC, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But she doesn't get them she just deals with all this shit, Character(s) of Color, F/F, F/M, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Guilt and Regret, I update once every 83 days it's a schedule, Let's pretend Heroes Day never happened, M/M, Mme. Bustier deserves nice things, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Parent troubles, People have Problems, The Akuma Victim Support Group, Trauma, Wow you can read this and figure out in 3 seconds what kind of person the author is, anyways fuck the main characters, author is a smug lil bastard man, gee whiz you can tell I don't get along with my dad!, gremlin imagery, just felt that was a relevant tag, minor characters get major, see I can tag normally sometimes, this is very uncanon, your writing can't be OOC if the character barely had any character development in the first place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorialIncursion/pseuds/AuthorialIncursion
Summary: AU in which akuma effects take 3-5 days to fadeA psychology student obsessively tries to figure out how the akumas work, and finds out a little too much.A busy older sister looks to the unexpected and looks a tad too far, entangling herself in a world of magic, risk, and fate.A teacher runs a therapy group for those who were akumatized, and finds herself in the midst of conflicting moralities and buried secrets.A loyal assistant disobeys instruction, attempting to find out who she is and run from who she was; only to run into more confusion.A transfer student wishes to leave her past mistakes, only to run into more; finding herself face to face with an ancient being and it's heavy debt.A young magician looks to find his place in the world, but his journey makes him wonder what his world really is.A photographer left broken after his akumatization by his mother's coldness and the traumas in his camera, unwilling to change himself.Or perhaps this story is not as dramatic, perhaps these are simply humans finding how their little lives fit in this world. Little lives shall change, as does the world.





	1. THE WITCHING HOUR

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for those who worked the night shift, insomniacs, similarly unstable consciousnesses, and dubious activities only dubious due to their relation to illicit narcotics. Narcotics seemed like a much more stimulating activity than being hunched over a work desk studying the chemical changes in a jar of seemingly empty air.

     What would the folks back home think of them now? A sleep-deprived near-lunatic, nothing that was worth their time.

     It was no matter. They had their work, they were going to make a breakthrough. They would find out how the akumas worked, they could prevent them, or use the changes for a benefit.

     But even that was a far fetched idea. They weren’t nearly close enough to figure anything out. All they had was a disappearing bug in a jar and a problem that manifested in case files of supervillains. Any changes they’ve recorded were hard to decipher, atmosphere changes in the jar seemingly the same.

     They distantly feel their head lolling to the side, eyelids growing heavier and heavier, falling slow while their thoughts run fanatically. The scratched, cheap, epoxy-lacquered desk is coming closer and closer. Any closer and they just might hit the jar.

     The jar.

     They jolt upward, their neck nearly snapping the other way. Pain ebbs from the side of their neck, and they dimly wonder how long they’ve been sitting hunched like that. Maybe they should take a break.

     No. They’re close to the answer. They’re almost there. Just a little longer at the desk. They’ll record what they can of the strange ladybug in the jar, and it's strange chemical diffusion into nothingness. They’ve been trying for the past 18 hours without interruption. Then they’ll sleep. They promise themself that.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that promises made mean next to nothing. Our Ome was going to keep lying to themself about sleep until they found out more. They would keep sacrificing until they had nothing left but empty promises.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for troubled minds struggling to find rest, a rampant imagination, confused adolescent emotion, and leaving the rest of the world for ones lacklustre pirated music.

     This was how she was spending the end of her first week in Paris. Idly doodling on her bare arm, sleeve rolled up to make room for glossy ink. She remembered how her old room would be so cold she had to heat up her pen on her hot water bag, making the ink flow a little too hot for comfort.

     Paris was warmer and winters here were idyllic and picturesque. Snow fell delicately to settle pristine and white, ice only appeared in the form of sparkling icicles. Winters back at Canada were horrifically freezing, grey, and hazardous. The slush mixed in with exhaust fumes to an opaque brown, and the ice stayed deceptively transparent. Snow would melt into muddy loam and stringy, dead, grass.

     But despite its aesthetic shortcomings and severe cold, she felt a strange sort of pride in surviving Canada's harsh winters. She doubted the Parisians could last too long back in Ainslie Woods.

     The minor satisfaction was short lived. There was nothing special about growing up cold and ugly in somewhere cold and ugly. There was nothing making her particularly better than the Parisians.

     And she had other memories of Canada that she didn't like quite as much. Perhaps her time spent here was more a penitence than not. Perhaps her past was just mocking her with the idea of being free to do what she wanted.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that time - past, present, future - are more connected than ever. Our Remy would find a way to get rid of parental troubles in her hometown, yet run into more confusion with the side of her family she rarely heard of, and would hear even less of the closer they got.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for listening to all the pager messages from mom, pacing the flat, and the oh-so stereotypical concept of wallowing in self-loathing.

     He surveyed the room he was in. Clock says 3:47 am. Rumpled sheets, pillows on the floor. Dirty clothes in a pile on a chair. Bare walls, comically pristine stacks of photographs in boxes. That damnable camera.

     What had been the original purpose of it? He’d been a sixteen year old amateur photographer. He had hours and hours of footage, not to mention all the photographs. The camera that held his world in it - salt water, grey skies, sheer curtains, dandelions, days out with friends. The quality was horrendous, video was shaky and large swaths of it was a focus on someone's shoes when he’d forgotten he’d been recording.

     But there had been life in it. He could look through the Kodaks old files and live it all over again, senses alive again.

     And then it happened. And then all the shaky salt water and blurred dandelions in the world couldn't amount to enough. He had to get his head out of the lens, and into the _real world._

 _Always the real world, son._ _There's nothing out there for you if your pictures don't mean anything. You have to grow up, get a proper job. What are a couple of photos gonna do? You can't capture the important stuff in it._

     Oh, but he did, didn't he? Seen the first shiny thing, and fueled by delusion and stress and the feeling of _not being enough_ , snatched at it. Who cares if he wasn't all quite there! It put him in the light! And he wanted to believe what he'd been told all his life. _You’re worth it now that you’re well known._

     And the akumatization, did dear mother care? _You’ve disappointed me, son. I thought you were more than a lunatic_. He'd ignored her at first. Spent a month practicing absolute radio silence. Spent the next watching every horrific second of the Pixelator that the camera had captured. It was too much to hope that the experience would be forgotten. So he rewinds the video. Over and over.

     The summer passed. No cheque from the folks, he sold his merch, couldn't bear to destroy it. He was weak. He called Mom. No response.

     The landlady kept him around, HéLiú knew his mom, probably didn't like her much, but she was a pitying soul, and he was a pitiful mess.

     It was late November when his mom called. He didn't answer. It went on, weeks passed. So a year shall pass. Now it's just a feeling of confusion. Too stubborn to give up passions for survival, to disheartened to bear those passions.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that the hearts conflictions become a plague upon the mind, that feud - with enemies, or friends, or oneself - shall spark nothing but unfair guilts. But our Vincent would have to be more cautious with his own mind, for he does not yet realize how finicky the mind is, even compared to his heart.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for those who preferred better terms than the colloquial “evil”, for whispering to ghosts, and not being sure what has come of one's life.

     She leaned against the casket, letting her eyelids slide shut. The past two years took their toll on the family.

     Gabriel growing colder and colder, distancing himself from others. And when he was Hawkmoth, oh, could she detest it more? There was an icy passion in him in times like that, a passion that pitted hearts against each other, and twisted minds all messy and sharp.

     “…like barbed wire.” she recounted to the woman in the coffin. “The Gorilla is still oblivious to what lies beneath the groundwork he patrols daily. If anything, it seems he really is still connected to Hawkmoth.”

     "I don’t want to think about that, Emilie,” she continued, “I wish I could forget about the things I've seen.”

     The control she mandated over her voice left her as memories involuntarily came flooding back. “The serum, the Gorilla, all those experiments.” She clenched her fists around the immaculately trimmed grass, rendering it to a green mess in her fingers. “He was willing to risk the Gorilla’s life for that. I was so scared during the experiment.”

     The fear. The feeling of a frost in one's bloodstream, a heartbeat going a thousand miles a second and thoughts racing twice as fast. That man's inhuman screams, how he doubled over, hands over his ears, trying to block out a voice forced in his head not by an akuma, but by a syringe.

     “Now he does it near every day with the villains,” She wanted to shred up the memories like she was shredding up the grass, “Those two superheroes he’s trying to find, they’re just kids. Adrien's age.”

     God, Adrien. Adrien and his stubbornness and will and rebellion and _not giving in_. Adrien and stirring up emotions from the frost water of Gabriel's psyche. Adrien and bringing people into the house again.

     “I think he’s the only thing keeping us together right now. I wish you could see how he's letting the life back into this place.”

     “I wish I knew what to do with the two of them.” Emilie's son and Emilie's husband, she shouldn't be thinking herself involved with them, and it seemed evident. Their connections were so estranged, bound close by blood and worlds apart in their hearts.

     “Ten years ago, you told me to consider myself family to you.” She had felt so strong in that moment, like Emilie's approval was an armour that enveloped her and made her stand taller, prouder. Now, she felt weaker than ever, leaning on a casket for support, voice shaking, tears fogging up glasses. “I was scared they wouldn't like having me around. Now they want me here, but everything's gone wrong.”

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that those with questionable mortality listen very intently in these instances of blurred worlds. Our Nathalie would come across ghosts of all sorts, some half dead and some very, very alive.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for those with a bit too much work to get done without sacrificing rest, a devotion to career and integrity, and surprise visits to the all night coffeehouse grading papers.

     Her drink had long cooled, and the barista was slumped asleep on the counter. The only sounds were the occasional car whizzing by and the soft _scritch scritch_ of her pen. Exams were over, which meant being swamped with grading work.

     She felt a dull ache in her head. Caffeine never quite cooperated with her, and staying up so late certainly didn’t help either.

     Something nagged at the back of her head, something she had to do still. She’d forgotten something, didn’t she? Forgotten, forgotten, forgotten.

     Right.

     The Support Group. She still had to contact the psychologist to help with amnesia and memory issues over their akumatizations. The sticky note was probably somewhere in the stack of papers.

     She fumbled through the pages, head beginning to swim now. Words and numbers and lists and marks and things she promised to do and responsibility and _there_.

     No wait. That was the time for last weeks staff meeting. The one about school safety with the increase in akuma attacks.

     Maybe that note? No, that’s a shopping list. Milk and bread and poster paper.

     Ah, there. The psychology student - Ome Li. The two of them had spoken at the meeting. She fumbled her phone out of her pocket and dialed in the number, waiting.

     The support group business and the teacher business and the school board mental health advocate business, she was glad to be a part of those, but the workload was getting too much for her. Having someone help would certainly push the progress of all those movements in a common way. Raising awareness, spreading information, those weren’t just teacher things, after all. They were human things.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that the definition of human is very difficult to discern. Our Caline would be crossing paths with many more people than she expected to, and face struggles with the very people she needed to help with struggles.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was for adolescent jetlag, but more often REM sleep, and most often rowdy younger siblings.

     Her sister stood, silhouetted in the light of the doorway, like a vengeful gremlin. “I threw up.” The tone of her voice was comically blasé.

     Well, the comfort of sleep was gone now. She rolled over on her bed to face the door. “Well, must have been that stomach flu going around. Did you tell Mom and Dad?”

     Nadia nodded. Well if the parents knew, then so did the rest of the siblings. As if on cue, Austin's voice rang from the bathroom. “Nadi, what did you _eat_?”

     Nadia crossed her arms defensively, “Same as you!”

     Her father’s voice was audible from the bathroom. “Austin, go back to bed,and tell your sisters to as well.”

     “You heard him. Nadia, Austin, go back to sleep.” She sat up in bed, crossing her arms, mirroring her sister.

     “I won’t be able to sleep with that stench!” The boy emphasized the last word, draping the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

     Nadia’s face bloomed red as she wheeled to face her brother, “Oh grow up, you’re supposed to be the mature one, you’re older! You can handle that!”

     The commotion brought little Pam tottering over, face scrunched up in a scowl. Anger was evident on her face. “Stop!” Her tongue still stumbled on some words, softening the syllables.

     Her parents ran over to console Pam. “Come on, back to your rooms, it’s the dead of night.”

     The kids held on to their spite, but not even they wanted to be up for long that late. They slunk back to their doors, Austin muttering “walk of shame” under his breath.

     Nadia’s ears were sharp as ever. “I heard that!” But even with her retort, she yawned immediately after.

     Well, that certainly was unexpected. And somewhat tiring. It fit the quota for something interesting, but not particularly enjoyable. Life is flavoured as such.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that the unexpected is to be expected. Our Diana would be finding herself in many such situations in the near future, be they good situations or not.

* * *

 

     The witching hour is attributed to the arcane, to activities of nefarious craft, to those inclined to be sinister. But viewed in a more modern lens, the witching hour was just the insomniacs noon, no malignant strings attached, and held quite a lovely night sky. It was probably a bad idea to be up now, he was starting that internship by preparing M. Haprèle’s show tomorrow, and rest was a much better idea.

     The window was open, the winter air sweeping into the room, and leaving a chill in the air that had a time-slowing quality to it. His elbows were rested on the windowpane and the plastic ridges dug into his elbows, but he stayed nonetheless. Winter was his favorite season, life was slower in winter, things didn’t change so fast. The cold seemed to drag out what was good, give more time to consider how to manage the bad.

     But there was no particular bad tonight. The worst that had happened was two years ago, and whatever damage that might have caused was fixed now. He was lucky not to have remembered it, though he made an effort not to look through the television archives to see what he did. Stories were enough.

     Stories and rumours, they had a way of hurting, didn’t they? He’d seen the effects, spent a good year and half at the support group. The kids were shunned at school, the adults given a wide berth at work. They were seen as threats, unstable and dangerous. Sometimes even amongst each other. He knew the way people avoided Mme. Bustier after she got akumatized, little Manon running away when he pulled out his cards to show her a trick, normally steadfast Ivan caving in to taunts about how he got akumatized twice, the wide berth people gave to the corner of the room where the Pixelator resided.

     Well, he somehow wound his train of thought to the bad stuff. He'd gotten cold from standing by the window so long, spirits low from dwelling on the past so long.

 

     One ought to know that the one similarity between the old witching hour and the new witching hour is that prolonged exposure to anything in those hours would lead to powerful change. Our Simon wouldn't like all the fast-paced people he would meet from those changes, but perhaps, he shall make room for an exception.

* * *

 

     And perhaps our heroes (or opposite thereof, although you may find less opposites, and more, ah, alternate sides of a coin) and their experiences in the witching hour aren’t correlated at all. Perhaps whatever is introduced in our little prologue is naught but coincidence with what shall come later on.

     Coincidence or not, these little lives so separate and simple now were in for quite a few surprises that would change quite a few lives.


	2. FIRST DAY - MORNING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> half of being alive is having problems, the other half is overthinking them

Remy ●

 

     There was a very distinct detail about her alarm clock that was possibly the only noticeable detail about her alarm clock. It was a radio alarm clock, and the radio in question only played one channel in a coherent fashion. And there was only one volume.

     50s jazz swing blared loudly from Room 8C of Black Maria Towers at 6:00 am, effectively waking up everyone else on the floor and possibly rousing several people from their rest on the other floors. The neighbour knocked on the door angrily as her right hand conveniently decided to fall asleep. Life is good.

     Giving a feeble attempt at an apology that bore great resemblance to a frogs croak, she rolled over to flip the off switch on the damnable clock. That’s how mornings are. Left elbow digging in her ribs, right hand stinging with that weird TV static feeling, the human body is an incredible machine. Her fingers fumbled with the plastic before hearing a click - and more importantly - the sweet absence of trumpet. The neighbour gave an audible scoff and marched down the hall back to their room.

     Remy heaved herself up, defying her hand and her vertigo. In an ideal world, she didn't stagger like a drunk, but alas.

 

     Omes room was silent. The door was probably unlocked.

 

     She padded over, cursing her heavy sleep-drowsy limbs. The door made a faint whine when she turned the handle, like the building itself was annoyed about being woken up.

     Papers were strewn across the floor, a bed covered with file folders, a suspicious lack of food smell. A figure slumped over the desk, face in a stack of papers. He was staying up, shutting himself in the room to study empty jars.

     She tugged a blanket off the bed, careful not to disturb the files, and draped it over his sleeping form.

 

     Some things are too familiar. _Remember when Dad used to fall asleep from overworking and you would do the same thing?_

_Remember how it became a constant, something to expect? Something you could count on, rely on._

     It's strange, growing up and still wanting to be a kid. She wasn't sure what kind of person to be then. There was Dad who was proud and caring and ‘ _Remy's all grown up’,_ and there was Dad who was spiteful and disappointed and ' _Remy’s all grown up’._ There was family that always expected you to leave, because they themselves had left.

 

     There was just different ways of leaving.

 

     “Remy?”

     Omes groggy voice.

     Right. Omes groggy voice. She didn't look up. “G’morning. Jayden from next door yelled at me about my alarm clock.”

     “Surely that's not why you’re so upset, right?” Shit. He takes after mom with this, always has crazy observance skills.

     If she looked up, she could just blame sleep deprivation. “M’not upset, just tired.”  trying her best to fake a yawn.

     When she finally met his eyes, he was deadpan as ever.

      “Really.” There were paper marks on his face from sleeping on the desk, but he doesn't look less intimidating. Another one of mom’s traits.  

     Now if he was her mom's son like he was, they’d be having a stare down just about -

     Yeah. Now.

     Remy used to think Ome would become one of those private eye detectives because he was all hard-boiled and good at interrogation. Now he's different kind of interrogation. 

     So she caves. “Thinking about Dad.”

     “Oh.” His face softens. “Do you-”

     “Feel like they kicked me out?” she shifted her weight. “I feel like they were waiting for me to leave.” Part of her wanted to keep talking, to just get it all out. But what would more complications do?

     “Yeah.” And it was his turn to look down, always a gesture that’s hard to read. “I guess, it’s one thing we have in common. We’re in this together.”

     For better or for worse.

     The moment doesn't last for long, moments never do. Always something else to do, always something in the way. Grow accustomed to it, and you’ll find yourself waiting for it to be over.

     He duly looks up, over her head, over into space. Avoiding eye contact. He's grown accustomed. “Come on, let's get you to school. First day of college.” He staggers over to grab his overcoat.

     “Can’t wait.”

     “Ha.” 

     Their sardonic tones match.

* * *

 

Diana ●

 

     The standard _beep beep_ of an alarm clock sounds muffled from the master bedroom. _Shhft. Click._

     The soft sounds of her mom’s footsteps. It's quiet, structured.

 

     And Pam's voice cuts through the walls, a deafening two syllables followed by an impressive amount of incoherent screaming.

     “MUMMY! BWAAAAH!”

     Austin swung his head out the door into the hallway “Ugh. Thanks for the wake-up call.”

     Right. Waking up.

     Mom consoled Pam in the other room, Austin started packing his bag characteristically late, Diana lifted heavy limbs to get dressed.

     Stereotypical big family? Not quite. Movies always write big families inaccurately, there's rarely a breakfast feast, the kids definitely get at each other more, and that toast-flying-out-of-the-toaster-so-a-cool-kid-can-catch-it gag is impossible.

     Pam, now placated (slightly) by breakfast, was mushing around her food in her bowl, glaring with dark eyes at the various corporeal beings in the area, as if they were responsible for waking her up.

     Footsteps came from the stairs. “Why is Pam staring at me?” Nadia returned the toddlers glare as she shuffled into the kitchen.

     Diana shrugged “I don’t know, Pam just does that.”

     “Yeah,” her brother spoke whilst munching his cornflakes “And speaking of things we don’t know, why are you so late?”

     Nadia looked at him with an upturned nose “ _I_ need my beauty sleep. Maybe if you followed my advice, you wouldn’t look like such a-” she paused, trying to find the right insult. “-such a, such a _gremlin_!”

     Diana sighed, shaking her head as Austin just laughed, “Hey at least this gremlin didn’t vomit _toxic waste_ last night!”

     She looked over at Pam, who had also taken to watching Nadia and Austin quarrel. She tried to make exasperated eye contact with the toddler, although Pam was soon again engrossed in swirling around her soggy breakfast. Despite all the people in the house, there wasn’t always someone to relate to. _Life is fast, and what's more, it’s busy._

     Just then, Diana's dad strolled in, pulling his lunch bag out of a drawer. “Nadia, I hope I didn't just hear you call your brother a gremlin.”

     Her sister crossed her arms “I didn't say he was a gremlin. I said he _looked_ like a gremlin. Whether or not I said he _is_ a gremlin is a different thing entirely.”

     “Well then, new rule. No gremlin-calling _or_ gremlin-comparing in this house.”

     Nadia slumped, but shrugged. “Fine.” Her mouth twisted into a sly grin, speaking lowly under her breath. “There’s plenty of other things to call him.”

     Her father shook his head to himself, albeit smiling slightly. “Some people never change.”

     Austin snickered, which wasn't unheard by Mom. “And don’t think you’re out of trouble, Austin.” she emphasized her point by gesturing with her fork, “It’s not Nadia's fault she was sick.”

     This time, Pam was snickering, although Diana wasn't sure if she knew what was going on.

     “Yeah Austin,” Nadia put her hands on her hips. “You can’t _bully_ me like that.”

    Austin scowled. “I don't think I'm thinking one being a bully.” Then, for good measure he added: “Harpy.”

     His sister gasped, “Pig nosed beast.”

     “Crusty toed baboon!”

     “Airhead!”

     “Warty-face!”

     Despite the snide comments, the two were giggling, trying to find sillier and sillier insults.      

     Her father looked over the two, giving Diana an exasperated look. “Alright, just eat your breakfast, you too.” He zipped up his bag. “And chop chop, it's the first day of school.”

     Austin, who had reached a giggling truce with Nadia interjected, “It’s technically not the first day though.”

     “It’s the first day after winter break then,” her mom corrected him, “Half the school year done.”

 

     Diana took a breath to think about that. She didn't realize it passed so fast. Part of her was surprised that the past half year was all there was, part of her wished she had got more done. She could help with the siblings, start a project, something new. Something useful.

 

_Pace yourself, it's fine. You don't have to handle all this stuff._

  
     She took a breath. It _was_ fine. Too many self expectations were just a result of poor sleep. The next semester was going to be _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kinna sucked and the next one is worse. apologies, but you really must be informed of the fact that the quality only gets shittier and shittier.
> 
> Edit: fixed the spelling issues because i'm scared of disappointing my one (1) uninterested reader (my basard siblign), and my friend who reads this fic for reasons i can't comprehend.  
> really. this work horrorterrible. i'm really just so lucky to have her as a friend, shes like,,, so paciente and really kind. i'm just going on about how much i love my friend now. 
> 
> heque yea 11 pm culture ʕ•ٹ•ʔ

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, it doesn't matter if it's not a lot, I just,,, wanna hear from people about this fic  
> blease, i am a depraved basard man who wants attention. also Kristy Kreme donuts dam im hungry.


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